


We’re Gonna Build a Body to Keep the Wolves Out

by girl0nfire, saturnmeetsmercury (jarofhearts)



Series: I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Comfort Sex, Department X, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:57:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofhearts/pseuds/saturnmeetsmercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesday: Hurt/Comfort</p><p>"Natasha -" He sounds hoarse, like he's been screaming, and maybe all the noise in his mind actually counts.</p><p>(it is always easier to share the load together (before + after))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i was a boxer that couldn’t stop swinging at shadows

_November 1988_

 

Natalia has done this just enough times now that it’s becoming routine. Return from a mission, debrief, return to her quarters. It’s only been her seventh as the Black Widow, since graduation, and they all went smoothly so far. She knows the higher ups are pleased with her.

It still feels different, not living in the Red Room mansion anymore, where there was always someone around, where the time tables were always full. Now, after her mission, she always gets three days of rest, three days to herself, three days where she’s being left alone and no one cares where she goes.

So she goes to the only place that always calls to her whenever she can get away with it.

The quarters are lying in half-darkness when Natalia lets herself in, so she doesn’t really think he’s there. It’s not the first time this happened, and it doesn’t matter. She can just curl up in his bed, doze a little. He’ll return sooner or later.

But Natalia stops when she sees the outline of a familiar body in bed after all, and a small frown flickers over her features, a small pang of worry.

After closing the door quietly behind her, she crosses the room slowly, keeping her distance from the bed, waiting for a sign that he's awake, or expecting her, or -

<"Come here.">

His voice sounds stretched thin and tired, but he doesn't move, still lying on his side, facing away from her. His shoulders are set in tense lines, his back strung taut. She can hear his breathing, purposeful and even.

Controlled.

The worry grows.

Natalia slips out of her shoes and rounds the bed immediately with quick, silent steps to be able to look into his face. What she finds is as much tension there as was visible in the lines of his back, and she lets out a breath, reaching out slowly to not startle him, and placing her fingers carefully against his temple.

<“What happened?”>

He starts away from her hand, his eyes sliding out of focus for a moment, before they clear again and he looks at her. Hands reach out for her, and his apologies sound frayed around the edges.

<“Please.”>

What in the _world…_

Natalia’s mouth falls open, alarm bells starting to ring everywhere in her mind. She’s _never_ seen him like this, showing that he’s hurt so openly, and by the amount of pain she knows he can usually roll with without even a wince, this must be bad.

<“What do you need?”> she asks, mindful to keep her voice quiet, her fingers curling carefully around his. <“Water? Ice? Anything?”>

He shifts away from her, carefully, and she quickly realizes he's not moving away from her, just making space for her to fit beside him on the small bed. So she climbs in next to him, turning to face him, and this close she can see the lines of anxiety and pain carved deeply into his face.

He doesn't speak to answer her, only lets his head fall forward, heavily, tucking against her neck.

There’s something - It’s making her throat tight, makes it hard to swallow. Natalia doesn’t know what to do, has never learned _this_. She’s not going to touch his head again, has learned that lesson a handul of seconds ago, even though what her instinct wants is to cradle it against her.

She wants to know so badly what happened, how he was hurt like this, but knows there won’t be any replies coming right now. So she just stays still to not jostle him, only her arm coming up carefully around his shoulders.

“It’s alright,” Natalia whispers eventually, tentatively trying English, very quietly, barely audible. “Shh. It’s alright.”

She's not sure how long they lie together like this, but eventually he drifts to sleep, his body slowly relaxing. His breaths slow against her neck, no longer tight and sharp, her hand rubbing small circles over his back, and then she dozes too.

"Thank you." His voice sounds tired, still, but less rough when she finally hears it again, shaking her from the last dregs of sleep. It's still dark, so there's no way of telling how long they've drifted off, but he finally seems nearly back to himself, out of the clutches of whatever has hurt him.

Natalia finally dares to draw back and look at him again, her hand in a feathery light touch on his shoulder, his neck.

“What happened?” she asks again, can’t not, simply wants to know what put him into a state like this.

"Mission briefing," he simply answers, hands already pulling her close again. She's not sure if that's supposed to hold some sort of significance for her, she's seen him after several mission briefings, but never -

Never _right_ after.

Is _this_ what mission briefings look like for him? What are they _doing_ to him?

Natalia doesn’t ask again though. She simply goes back to wrapping her arm around him since that seemed to be alright, troubled but careful not to let it show too much. Her fingers gently brush over the shirt between his shoulder blades, moving up carefully until her fingertips are playing with the tips of his hair in the nape of his neck.

She’s helpless about what else to do, if he might want her to talk or to keep quiet, if she can help in any other way than this.

But he seems to continue to relax beneath her hand, his head tipping forward onto her shoulder again, and she's only mildly surprised when his left hand finds her hip, fingers stroking gently over her skin.

She doesn't like this feeling, of being useless to help him when he's done so much for her, held her when she's been upset or hurting.

Natalia whispers quietly, careful about getting his attention even while she keeps the soothing touches up. “Is there nothing else I can do?”

He lifts his head up, catching her by surprise with a kiss, surging forward and gripping more tightly at her hip. It takes her way longer than usual - long seconds - to react, too caught off guard, because this is honestly the last thing she expected.

But eventually she simply lets him, makes her lips go soft under his, kisses him back carefully.

He pulls away just as suddenly, his eyes wild for a moment before they focus in on her again, and he looks curiously, anxiously at her.

“I'm sorry -”

“What for?” she can only ask, searching his eyes, a little lost. That he kissed her? It’s not like she’s ever going to mind as long as they’re in the privacy of his quarters.

“We don't have to -”

He can't quite hold her gaze, but when he does, his eyes are shining just a bit too bright.

Is he really talking about what she thinks he is? Natalia’s lips part in surprise. He could barely _move_ not so long ago.

“Hey,” she says quietly, reaching up to finally, carefully cup his cheek, a bird-like touch, barely there at all. “Are you sure this is okay? Are you still in pain? I don’t want to hurt you.”

He nudges into her hand immediately, chasing after the touch, and his eyes fall closed again.

Alright… this, at least, is good.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Natalia reassures him immediately, instinctively, her second hand coming up now too to cradle his face, thumbs carefully brushing over his cheeks. Her head tilts forward until her forehead touches his very, very lightly. “I’m just going to do this, alright? Is this okay?”

He makes a soft noise, nodding his head slowly, and leans into her hands again, his own coming up to wrap gently around her wrists, holding her in place.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and she's not sure why or what for, but she doesn't question it, lets him say it as many times as he needs to. She simply reassures him quietly, with words and soft touches, eventually tilting her head up to press soft, feathery kisses on his brow.

“If there’s anything you want or need, anything at all, you can tell me,” Natalia promises him, lips against his skin. “Always.”

“No -” His voice wavers, quietly, and the silence that follows might just be enough to finally break her heart. “No more Russian, not - not tonight, please -”

“Shh, okay, that’s fine, that’s easy,” she reassures him immediately, collecting herself for a moment and then drawing away enough to give him a small, warm smile, but careful to keep her hands on him. “Not a word. What else?”

"Can you stay?"

“Where else would I want to go?” Natalia returns without hesitation. They’d have to pry her away from him to go anywhere now.

He doesn't reply again, searching her eyes, and finally, _finally_ he relaxes fully, going pliant against her, his head heavy in her hands.

"Thank you."

She wasn’t even aware her heart could do the things it does when she sees him like this. Natalia breathes out an inaudible sigh and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

“How about a glass of water?”

“They took care of -” He swallows, leaning into the press of her lips. "Yes, thank you."

She doesn’t draw away from him without another small kiss, this time on his lips. It’s only a few of steps until she can fill a glass, doesn’t even have to move out of his sight which, she has the nagging feeling, might be a good thing right now.

“Here.”

Natalia folds her leg underneath her as she sits back down on the bed, watching him closely. She notices his arm doesn't make any noise when he reaches to take it from her, different from the last time she was here, when it made a soft whine as he reached for her. They - repairs? Is that what this was about?

Natalia tears her eyes away from the sight of metal fingers curled carefully around the glass and looks into his face again, a warm wash of relief coming over her when she sees he's smiling gently at her.

"Did you miss me?"

It makes it so very easy to smile back at him, soft and small but infinitely warm.

“What do you think, hm?”

“I think -”

He takes a sip, then another, finally draining the glass in a few swallows, reaching to rest it on the small table beside the bed.

"I think you did."

The way he says _think_ almost sounds like _hope_.

It makes something already large swell in her chest.

“You would be right about that,” Natalia says quietly like the secret that it is, between the two of them, her smile widening.

She _has_ missed him. Is starting to always miss him when they’re away, and that should worry her, but right now she can’t bring herself to it.

"I missed you, too," he offers immediately, as if she ever doubted him. "Thank you for the water."

Natalia thinks this might be one of the best things she’s ever heard. It’s why the words come out without her conscious doing, her heart doing something very curious.

“Can I kiss you? Would… that be alright?”

He reaches for her, nodding, and she goes to him immediately, leaning in closer, her hands coming to cup his face again. It's nothing like their previous kiss, there's no hesitation, and he kisses her back softly, building in intensity the longer it lasts, his hands sliding carefully into her hair.

How curious, that just a handful of months ago, she couldn’t even imagine doing anything like this. And now she wouldn’t know how to be without it.

Finally Natalia feels confident enough in how he’s doing that she can raise one hand and draw her fingers through his hair too just like she loves doing, softly nibbling on his lower lip.

He huffs out a breath, his hands tightening in her hair for the briefest of moments, and then he's kissing her again, more deeply, so that she barely manages to let out the soft, amused sound that comes up her throat.

“What…?”

It’s definitely not enough to make her stop kissing him beyond that brief question.

He pulls away, for a moment, the softest of laughs escaping him and it almost sounds like he thought he'd forgotten how.

“It just -” He's smiling at her again, and it's such a change from when she first came into the room. ”That felt good, it's -”

“Well that’s a relief,” she smiles back, brushing her fingertips over his cheek, unable to really stop herself from touching him. “Otherwise I would have seriously needed to wonder if I forgot how to kiss.”

He huffs another quiet laugh before pulling her up into his lap, his arms circling her waist.

Now it’s her turn to put her head down on his shoulder, to lean against his chest, instantly feeling warm and cared for.

“Feeling better?”

"Yes, thank you." He buries his nose in her hair, holding her tightly against him. "Thank you very much."

It’s undeniable, all encompassing relief that settles warmly in her chest and Natalia presses just a little closer, curling against his chest. She never wants to see him like this again, but if this is really the reality of his briefings, she knows it will doubtlessly happen again.

In fact she’s going to want to be there every single time, to make sure he’s alright, to help make him feel better.

If that’s all she can do, she’s going to make sure to be there every step of the way.


	2. hearts don’t break (they bruise and get better)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like he does in the comics, Steve dies in this verse in the wake of Civil War. But you all know what happens in the comics a while later too. :)

_May 2016_

 

It's finally -

It's _over_.

The military funeral at Arlington had been respectful, and Steve had earned that, had earned the admiration of the tens of thousands of people who'd lined the streets of DC for the motorcade, the cemetery full of dignitaries and generals and service people, heroes from all over the world, allies, veterans, all the people who'd known Captain America. It had been beautiful, and befitting of everything Steve had done in his life, a true hero's rest.

But it hadn't been a service for Steve.

That's why Bucky had insisted on a second service, closed to the public and as private as he could get it, all of SHIELD's security at his beck and call for the afternoon. The guest list was small, less than twenty people, all who'd known and loved _Steve_ , not just the uniform he'd worn, who'd fought with him and beside him and knew, truly, how much color had drained from the world without him in it.

The small marker that now sits between his parents' gravestones is unremarkable, no military designations or symbols, just Steve's name, the dates of his birth and death, the dash between them all there is to signify the great, long, meaningful life he's lived in between.

The cab ride back is silent, and Natasha's been that way for days anyway, quiet and solemn and Bucky would say _distant_ except he's not entirely sure she's the one putting the space between them. He's spent every night the past week wide awake on the couch in their living room, leaving her to sleep as best as she can alone in their bed, and he hates it almost as much as he hates that he can't make himself get up and go to her. Because he's a coward.

God, he misses her, even when she's sitting right beside him. So he reaches for her hand where it's lying on the seat between them, taking it and holding it tightly, still looking out the cab window, unseeing.

He can feel her eyes on him, finally, but she doesn't say a word. The only thing that happens is that her fingers entwine with his, squeeze his hand, and she turns back to look out of the window again, just like he does.

They're almost home, he thinks. Even if it doesn't feel like it.

They don't let go of each other until the cab rolls to a stop in front of their apartment building, and their hands find each other again as soon as they enter.

She's watching him carefully but still doesn't say anything, at least not until they're safely inside their elevator and headed up. He finally, finally gathers the courage to face her, meet her eyes for the first time in what seems like _days_ , but before he can say something - and he doesn't know what it would be - she tugs him closer by the hand and pulls him down for a kiss.

It's soft, barely there, really, her hand on the back of his head like a caress. He knows for now this is just being close, seeking him out in reassurance and companionship. They're not alone, even if it's hard to remember a more desolate moment.

That doesn't stop him from wanting more, though, craving that closeness. He wants the reassurance that comes with pressing tightly against her, the promise of that sweet blankness that usually overtakes his mind when he deepens the kiss, dropping his hand to cup her jaw instead, backing her against the mirrored wall of the elevator so he can lick into her mouth, clutching at her.

Natasha doesn't stop him, doesn't even seem surprised. She responds without hesitation, puts more force behind her kiss, her fingers tightening in his hair, the other hand coming up to clutch at his shoulder. Her back arches between his body and the elevator wall, a soft, tiny sound pressing against his lips.

And maybe he should feel bad, maybe he should pull away from her, remind himself that this isn't the time, but he _can't_ -

Or maybe he just doesn't want to.

So he crushes his body against hers, sinking his teeth into her bottom lip, pausing only long enough to haul her almost bodily out of the elevator and down the hall when they reach their floor.

Bucky crowds her as she unlocks the door, his hands wrapping around her hips, and once they're inside their apartment he pulls her close again, wrapping his left hand in her hair and kissing her again, again, again, roughly, no trace of sweetness or reassurance left, but still stirring something in his chest, filling the emptiness.

She only indulges him for a handful of seconds longer, and then, suddenly, tightens her grip on him and spins them around, pushes him back against the wall, and it's her who presses him back now, presses her hips against his, bites into his lip, digs her fingertips into his skin.

He frees his hand from her hair, fingertips trailing over her neck and then reaching to tug down the zipper of her dress, getting impatient and finally just pushing it up, over her hips, hauling her close again and lifting her with one arm, her legs locking around his waist.

She gasps quietly into their kiss, a small hitch in her breath, but her arms adjust around his shoulders right away. There's a small tremor that goes through her, but she keeps holding on, lets him know she's right there with him.

He turns them again, pressing her back against the wall and reaching his right hand between them, fingers digging into her inner thigh.

"Tell me you're alright," he grits out, unwilling to do this unless she wants to, not so lost in it yet that he doesn't need to hear her tell him it's okay.

He doesn't have to wait for even a moment.

"I'm alright," she says against his lips, one hand coming up to cradle his face. Her breath is a little uneven, but her voice allows no room for doubt.

He kisses her again, and it's lost some of the earlier harshness.

"Then I won't ask again," he presses the words against her jaw, his hand fumbling between them to tug at his belt, unzipping his slacks, pushing at fabric until he can wrap his hand around his cock with a groan.

This might do it, might - make everything _quiet_ for a few fucking minutes, just long enough for him to forget -

Bucky tugs at Natasha's panties, pushing them aside and twisting a finger inside her, then another, swallowing the sounds she makes with another series of bruising kisses.

Eventually she breaks away from the kiss, throws her head back, a short, low groan  escaping her throat.

"Come on… _come on_ …"

And that's all the encouragement he needs to slip his fingers free from her body, taking himself in hand again and sliding into her. He doesn't stop, usually he'd give her a second to adjust, savor the feeling of pushing inside her slowly, but he can't, not today, not _now_ -

He sets his teeth into the line of her throat, his hips bucking roughly into her, and the sound that tears from him is half growl, half sob.

She's quiet now, soundless except for the softly panted breaths next to his ear. Her hold on him is tight though, vice-like almost, but then she reaches back and pushes them both away from the wall.

Couch. Floor. Table. She doesn't say anything so it's not like she cares which one, but… somewhere he can set her down.

He carries her into the living room quickly, only lifting his head from her shoulder to glance around the room, his gaze finally falling into their small dining table. He steps over to it, settling Natasha on the edge as gently as he can while still keeping them joined, and finally pulls away enough to meet her eyes for the briefest of seconds.

It's a mistake.

The muted color of her lipstick is smeared on the corners of her mouth, and for the briefest of moments he almost thinks it could be blood. There’s something glassy and unseeing about her eyes and he can't -

Christ, he still has his _jacket_ on -

Shrugging it off, he tosses it away almost with disgust before he's crowding her again, following her as she leans back on her hands before he grips tightly to her hips and bucks into her again.

Natasha lets out a long, sharp breath and her head falls back, eyes closed. There’s something tight around her features, but her legs come up around him and her hips tilt forward to make it easier for him anyway.

Bucky drops his forehead against her shoulder, speeding his hips, but his heart isn't in it, he can't -

He's chasing that moment of blissful ignorance, desperate to forget everything around him for the three, four seconds his mind goes blank, and he can feel it building at the base of his spine. Sweat is trickling down his back, his teeth grit together in concentration, and he knows his fingers are digging too sharply into Natasha's hips, knows he's fucking into her harder than they usually like, but he can't stop, he can't, he can hold himself together and chase his release and hope that he doesn't just fucking fall apart -

He hears a wounded noise, vaguely, his face buried in the crook of Natasha's neck, and he realizes a moment later it's his, his hips stuttering.

Arms come up around him, not even just holding but clinging. Her face turns into his hair and her breath hitches, and then it’s like she clamps her lips together to fall silent, but he can feel her body twitching against him, around him.

When he comes, Bucky bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood, trying to stifle another one of those wounded, hollow noises he can't seem to stop from shaking loose inside his chest. He doesn't move, he can't, staying crushed against Natasha, his hands leaving her hips to wrap tightly around her waist. He has to breathe.

 _Breathe_.

He can't, he can't do this, that - as soon as the warmth is gone he feels empty again, drained, used up and -

"Goddamnit." He's not even surprised how broken the word sounds, muffled in Natasha's hair. " _Goddamnit_ \- "

She doesn’t reply, still, doesn’t move away from him either. But her hand comes up, rests on the back of his head for a long moment, and then she softly strokes over it, over his hair.

He can't hold off on it, anymore.

He did it for the services at Arlington, standing in the stifling sun in his service uniform, medals shining on his chest, medals he never would've had if it wasn't for Steve dragging their sorry asses all over Europe looking for Hydra.

He did while he sorted through Steve's things with Sharon, while he decided which of Steve's sketchbooks he could bear seeing on display at the Smithsonian like some kind of odd trophy of patriotic voyeurism, while he signed the paperwork for Steve's pension, while he did all the things he had to because Steve had been a hopeful, reckless bastard and put Bucky down as his next of kin in all his Army forms in '43.

He's done it this afternoon, presiding over a funeral he'd always hoped he'd never live to see.

"I can't -"

He can't do it anymore.

For a moment he can just hear her breathe softly, flatly, her hand still stroking his hair, and then finally Natasha speaks again. “I know… It’s okay,” she whispers, and there’s something in it, wavering just for the fraction of a second. “I know…”

He doesn't want to, doesn't want to move, but he has to, at least to let himself slip out of her, gently prying her thighs from his hips. Bucky doesn't look at her, he can't, not if he's going to hold it together long enough to -

"Shower," he says, helping her carefully off the table.

They used to do this often, before, when they were -

There's something private about it, quiet and safe, you tip your face up into the water and it's almost like you're not -

He notices the tears on her face and he hates himself. Hates all of this, hates -

"Here." His hands ease her dress off gently, still averting his eyes. She lets him, silent again, only steps out of the fabric once he’s brushed it down her legs. He unhooks the back of her bra next and she shrugs out of it, doesn’t do anything to brush her hair back when it falls down around her face, hiding her features. Her skewed panties she gets rid of herself, and then turns to undo the buttons of his shirt, head lowered, gaze following her own fingers determinedly.

He lets his hands sit at his sides, even though he's craving the touch of her skin beneath them. He just - he needs to hold her, he needs to know she's alright, he can't do this _without_ her -

"Natasha -" He sounds hoarse, like he's been screaming, and maybe all the noise in his mind actually counts.

He helps her, pushing off his slacks and toeing off his shoes, stripping out of his shirt once she's finished.

She turns away from him, walking slowly toward the bathroom, and he almost can't bear it. He strips off the last of his clothes - socks, underwear - and hurries after her, still not quite sure he can touch her and mean it.

Natasha has already started the water, testing it with her hand before stepping under the stream just when he’s reached the shower as well.

He knows it’s the perfect excuse for her to just close her eyes, run her hands over her hair and be busy. Bucky’s just not entirely sure if it’s to give him space, or to hide.

Probably both.

He can't help but be thankful.

He gives her a moment, keeping his hands busy by brushing his teeth, trying to wash the sour taste out of his mouth. He grabs fresh towels, gets out her robe, goes and snags himself a clean pair of sweats. Eventually he runs out of things to do with his hands, so he finally slips into the shower behind her, keeping his distance, until the urge to touch her is too great and he can't help it, he _has_ to.

Bucky reaches out, slowly, brushing her hair away from her face with gentle hands, and Natasha finally turns around to look at him.

Her eyes are a little red, and her subtle makeup is smeared around them. It’s an imperfection that doesn’t happen, usually, because she’s always thorough in her cleaning rituals.

It makes her look vulnerable.

He cups her face, gently, thumbs brushing over the drips of black under her eyes, and the very, very last strong part of him breaks, somewhere deep inside.

It's almost a relief to rest his forehead against hers, it's so heavy and he's _so tired_ , he can't even hold the tears back when they threaten at the corner of his eyes this time.

He finds that he doesn't want to.

Natasha lets out a long breath, almost like it’s one she’s been holding, and she reaches up and finally envelops him in her arms.

It’s tender this time, and her body is soft, even more inviting now as she pulls him close to her.

Bucky isn't sure how long they stand there, but he can't take his hands away from her face, can't move, can't do _anything_ but feel it, all of it, everything he's been trying to avoid, to bury and forget and ignore and he's _shaking_ , God, his whole body trembling, and she's -

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, finally moving to gather her up in his arms, burying his face against her hair.

“No, shh, don’t,” Natasha replies immediately, and this time her voice is soft but steady, though the emotion webbed through it is unmistakable. She tightens her hold, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder, the side of his neck. “It’s okay, I know, I’m here. I love you, James, I love you…”

He finds himself leaning against her too heavily, so he renegotiates them just enough that he can lean back against the tiles, holding her close to his chest.  

“I can't -” he says again, still not sure what the end of the sentence is. His throat feels thick, swollen, and he can't do this, he can't -

“Stay, don't -”

He hides his face in her hair again, and he can feel her trembling against him.

God, he can't ever lose her.

“I need you, don't - I can't lose -”

It's irrational, he knows this, but he has to say it, has to make it real by saying it out loud.

"Stay with me."

Her hand strokes his hair with gentle urgency, her lips against his skin.

“I’m not going anywhere, never, I swear,” she says, and there’s so much conviction in her voice, such a firm promise that she’s going to do everything humanly possible to keep her word.

There are no guarantees in life, they both know that. But he also knows that this, from her, is everything she can give.

He loses track of how many times he presses _I love you_ against her hair, how long they stand there beneath the steady stream of water, clutching at each other.

At some point, Bucky stoops to scoop Natasha up in his arms, sliding down the wall to sit beneath the spray, settling her carefully in his lap.

He rubs her back, gently, his face hidden in her hair, and he doesn't want to let her go, can't, because every time he thinks he's done, empty, wrung out, a fresh wave of tears comes, and he can't stop them.

Her fingertips are trailing soft, soothing circles on the juncture between his shoulder and neck, have been for long minutes now. She’s breathing warmly against his skin, and every so often she presses a kiss to it.

“We’re going to make it,” is what she finally says, quiet but steady, just loud enough for him to hear her over the stream of water. “You and I. I promise, we’ll be okay. You’re so strong, James, you’ll get through this. And I’ll always be there.”

He finally looks at her, really looks, meeting her eyes and holding them, silent for a very, very long time.

Her face is finally clean, the last bits of makeup washed off after she rubbed at her eyes a while ago, and she looks younger, softer somehow with her hair stuck to her face, her smile a tiny, secret curve.

He can see the red rimming of her eyes, and he's almost thankful for it.

She needed this, too.

Tipping his face up, he palms the back of her head, gently, pressing his lips to her temple.

<"I love you, my angel.">

<”I love you too. So much.”>

It’s those two added words, that reinforcement that usually isn’t there that tells him how very, very serious she is. They don’t need this, usually. But the past few days have been so dark, so painful, so desolate that even they do need it now.

The curl of her lips is warm now, even though there’s still so much weighing on it. But she brushes her hand over his cheek, holding his gaze.

<”My star.”>

He touches his forehead to hers, his head less heavy this time, a small smile on his lips.

<"Thank you.">

Natasha simply shushes him, one fingertip brushing over his lips.

“Do you want to get up?” she asks instead, water still running over her skin. “Finish this?”

He tightens his arms around her for a moment, holding her closer.

"Let me help you clean up?"

She knows what he means, that he needs to be sure he hasn't hurt her. And Bucky knows she’s always okay with that, always indulges him, even when she thinks it’s not necessary.

“Okay,” she says quietly but seeks his eyes again. “But I’m alright. Really.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment.

God, he's so thankful for her. He doesn't even know how to say it.

"Make it up to you later?" he offers, and she nuzzles softly against his temple.

“We can just go to bed. Wish I could sleep for a week.”

"Thinking about just doing it anyway."

“We can try, right?”

Bucky nudges her from his lap, gently, holding her hands so she can push herself up.

"Don't think it'd be that hard."

He leans in to press a kiss to each of her knees, affectionately, squeezing her hands gently.

She pulls him up alongside her and pushes herself to the tips of her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Let’s find out.”


End file.
